a collection of thoughts and emotions, carelessly twisted into words on the leaf of a notepad
.:taure.anwar.rodrigues:.

10.12.2007

Whispers from the trees

sitting in class, reading through a history bookI find myself drowning in handed down university gossipit seems as if historians and presidents shined lights on our past’s shadowsleaving entire passages whited outour words washed awayfibrousblood stainedsplattered; stretched ropes remainformed into nooses once used to release spirit from anything blackdark flesh rotsripped; torn aparton the bark of trees bearing negro fruitthe trees limbs so laden with innocent souls thatlifeless toes touch blades of grass on their ascent to heavenI sit in my chair under the arch created by the hanging treeand search around looking for messages dropped to the groundfrom hands clenched tight together; holding onto their last breathpain riveting from the neck down to their blood stained coveringsI am listening to the trees’ whispersutteringlast prayers of the dyingfree mefree meoh heavenly Fatherfree me from this placewhere my skin color has become the measurement of my livelihoodI look around and find spots of bloodremnants left overfrom post mortem beatingsnot red but purple stains remainthe type of blood that exists only inside the veins of royaltythose of my past’s kings and queensnow reduced to a slave mentalitylifeless bodies hung on trees to catch the summer breezeleft in a wayto teach dem other negros lessons about wanting to be freethat’s what the massa saywell now massa is telling me another storyhe teaches democracyand how it has always existed for the right of human beingshe goes onto saywe will enforce democracylikethe pilgrim’s thanksgiving on plymouth rockand stuff it down the throats of anyone not willing to eat our words of subjugationwellsubjected we wereto plantationstilling mother earth’s creationuntil finallyraping her of the opportunity to grow us out of herehereinthisforeign countrythisplacewe once never knew ofa mind will always revolt unnatural surroundingswhat you called disobedienceour ancestors calledsurvival of the quickestI turn the page in my history bookand find it blankmy pen starts to write a new history passagerecycled words dropped onto the soil that my ancestors watered with their ownblood; sweaturine; tearsfrom bodies hung in the summer breezebecoming fertilizer for our futureproducing Whispers from the trees